Not Human
by MariellaSara
Summary: After Sirius' death, Harry falls into a deep hole of despair. He doesn't want to live on with the overwhelming feeling of guilt inside him. He doesn't even want to be human anymore...


**N O T H U M A N**

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**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes: **This story is not beta-read. Any mistakes, logic-holes and other nasty things that don't belong into the actual story are entirely mine.

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"**Then I don't want to be HUMAN!"**

His words still echoed in Harry's head as he wandered around on the Hogwarts Grounds, hands deep in his pockets. Sirius' death had happened one week ago – or at least that was what the calendar told him. He couldn't believe it – it felt like it only just happened. It still hurt so much. He didn't want to be _human_, damnit! The only thing he wanted was having Sirius back, but that wasn't possible.

So he didn't want to be human anymore, either, no, never again, if it meant feeling this soaring pain that was like a pungent, sharp sword that divided his heart into two small parts and cut them in halves and into even smaller parts and still smaller parts until there was nothing left of it.

Not if being human meant this hot anger inside him that throbbed in his head like a terrible, constant headache that would never go away again, like a tumour that had appeared the moment He had fallen through the veil and that would be growing and growing and growing for the rest of his life until it filled his whole mind, his whole conscience, and he'd have to surrender, to give in to his anger, his hot, painful fury that made him want to cry out loud and scream and never end, roar all the pain, the fury out of him.

Not if being human meant having to live with this unbelievable injustice of fate that had made his last parent vanish from the surface of this world, just like that; from one moment to the next He wasn't there anymore – gone, forever – to a place where he couldn't reach Him anymore. Could never see Him again, never talk to Him again, never hear His laugh again, never have a last hidden hide-out from the world outside again.

Not if being human meant this emptiness inside him that made him feel like a hollow form without a soul, a machine walking around, acting as he was told without feeling anything. This big hole where He had been, that black hole of sorrow and anger and pain and fury that filled him, filled every tiny little bit of him to the last hidden corner, and still he didn't feel anything – nothing important; no love, no joy, no happiness, nothing at all, all of which had gone with Him, behind the veil.

Not if being human meant this desperateness, this miscomprehension, this indelible spark of hope deep inside him, like a bright star right in the insanity that ruled inside him. This spark that would never disappear, no matter how often he'd painfully tell himself the terrible truth, no matter how often he'd wake up from his dreams of a better world with Him in it – a world with laughter, with real emotions – not with this present hollowness.

This last bit of hope that would torture and torment him, over and over again, and hurt even more with every realisation of the sad and bitter truth, that would vanish for a short time and would glow again, even stronger, until it was conquered again by the discouraging real life that waited for him out there.

Not if being human meant this sympathy from all sides that was even more present as nobody showed it openly. The news that He had been his godfather had spread quickly, of course, and they were all staring at him, more or less openly, whispering with their friends, glancing at him from time to time, thinking he didn't notice it. He didn't want sympathy or pity or whatever it was they were feeling with him. He wanted to feel satisfaction, from all of them. He wanted them to laugh at him and shout at him and tell him that everything was only his fault, his stupidity, his ignorance that had caused His death. For once in his life he wanted them all to be like the Slytherins. He deserved their contempt and dislike. He was a murderer! He had killed the most important person in his life and he deserved having to pay for it.

Not if being human meant _living_. Going on, breathing, seeing the sun rise and set, only to repeat itself forever and ever, and He would never see it again.

Talking, walking around, while knowing too well He would never be able to do that again.

Feeling – even if it was only dark despair and bitterness and loathing – although he knew He was somewhere where He could do none of this, not feel anything.

Being, while He was no more. What was the purpose of his surviving? Why had Voldemort not killed him, too? It was not Dumbledore's affair in any aspect; he should have let Voldemort kill him.

Kill him, only to finish it all, to get rid of the burden of loss that was hanging over him like a dark cloud of hate and anguish and eternal agony he could not get rid off.

He didn't want to be human.

He didn't even want to be alive anymore.

Live had lost everything that was worth living for, continuing, going on, standing up again.


End file.
